Reviews for Bill Nye's Red Book

The average rating for Bill Nye's Red Book based on 2 reviews is 3 stars.

Review # 1 was written on 2013-12-10 00:00:00 Greg Atkins Monday afternoons are most favorable to practice the art of idling. The anxiety of a fresh work week prevails over the dormancy of deadlines and you are back on detoxification diet after a carb loaded Sunday. On one such afternoons amid my momentary sniffing of liquid black ink( the one that fills the belly of a fountain pen), I hear a deafening sound enough to crack the inner chords of my ears. As I look up from my sniffing activity, I observe a recognizable obnoxious face of a dear friend who also acts as my local bookworm. "Have you heard of Jerome K Jerome ", she says overlooking my disdain. "Is he your fuck mate?" I ask, trying to outwit with my sarcasm. You lightheaded bitch!, she shows displeasure. "He is the one who wrote Three Men in a Boat". Laughter overcomes me as I tell her my awareness of the author stating that he is one of the funniest men in English literature. As she takes a mouthful of my salad, "Read this book. It is quite interesting", she urges while masticating on the lettuce. "Jerome writes that although this book might be a good change in between reading "the best 100 books ever", it wouldn't even elevate a cow. But, I think it might elevate you". As she squanders away to my relief, I sit at my desk torn between the desire to resume ink inhalation or read a book by one of my favourite author. Idling can be a joy if it is masked in the aura of procrastination. Lethargy is an entirely different concept as it is accompanied by comatose temporal lobe. So, I concur with my dear friend Jerome, when he states that in the world of slow-coaches and indolent people, a true idler is a rarity. A lazy person can sit on a park bench for hours and would care the least even if his butt falls asleep while staring expressionlessly at the birds. On the other hand, an idler for a gem of a person that he is, counts the pigeons in the park, browses the newspaper and exhibits characteristic facial expressions indicating his choc-a bloc schedule. Jerome infers idleness is as sweet as stolen kisses. Idle thoughts on the other hand, can weave an intriguing web of frivolous words and rational sentences. An imposed idleness can relay a series of thoughts, wondering why isn't the life-cycle of a mosquito applicable to certain neighbors when they share the same blood-sucking attributes of the insect. Your mind debates the legitimacy of Darwin's claim of man being evolved from apes, when you can clearly see the physical similarities and behavioral patterns between a walrus and one of you elder uncles at a family reunion. If we could identify with the baby talk, would all the "goo-goo-ga-ga" spell out Stewie Griffin's verbal diarrhea? As you idle away work responsibilities, flinging pebbles in the nearby pond, the simultaneous ripples in the water brings a plethora of dystopian phrases that you might scribble away. Pigeons are devilish birds and so are seagulls. They secretly hate me like my exes. They stare at me and then maul me for a bag of cookies. Cats are smarter than dogs. An individual is the most compassionate and cheerful when he is fed. It is funny how a hungry stomach lustfully adores a plate full of gastronomic delicacies. Hunger is a luxury for those well-fed, as myself. Melancholy is like a glob of butter on toasts. It is detrimental to health, but without it life would be as flavorless as a stale oat. Vanity is not an honorary title solely bestowed on Simon Cowell. Everyone is vain. Take pride in it, just like my aunt whose bedroom lifestyle can put a praying mantis to shame (so claims my uncle, marvel at him being still hale and hearty), flutters like a butterfly at a cosmetic counter even though she appears to be a victim of a reversed metamorphosis. Jerome inscribes that memory is a rare ghost-raiser. Like a haunted house, its walls are ever echoing to unseen feet. Through the broken casements we watch the flitting shadows of the dead, and the saddest shadows of them all are the shadows of our own dead selves. Self- imposed amnesia is the best cure. That is what my cousin prescribes to when she runs into one of her ex-husbands while on a shopping spree. Jerome is not at his sarcastic best. He is sick, you see. But, he does not disappoint at all. With the help of his dearest companion - the pipe, his drugged temporal lobe leisurely grabs every thought that runs through his mind contemplating from animal attitudes to love, furnishing apartments, babies, food and merriment of the time gone by. The text comprising of 14 varied essays, are rich with the humorous undertones on frolicsome anecdotes filtering into a theoretical finesse. I am alone and the road is very dark. I stumble on, I know not how nor care, for the way seems leading nowhere, and there is no light to guide. But at last the morning comes, and I find that I have grown into myself. As the alarm once again nearly ruptures my ear drums, it is 4'oclock in the evening and as I erase the defined whorls off my cheek printed by the ink stained thumb, a thought lingers asserting that my friend was precise of this book elevating me. Moo!!!!!

Review # 2 was written on 2016-10-13 00:00:00 Chris Snowdon Ah, this was such a lovely, entertaining, witty read. First about (my) sentiments. I felt a bit (strongly) envious of the friend to which JKJ dedicated this small collection of essays. Well, I assumed, on reasonable ground, that it's a woman, a man, a pet. But no, alas! It is his most beloved smoking pipe! It has, as per below listed, got the best of the lively and trustful attributes to be worthy of this laudatory credit: "To the very dear and well-beloved friend of my prosperous and evil days- To the friend who, though in the early stages of our acquaintanceship did ofttimes disagree with me, has since become to be my very warmest comrade- To the friend who, however often I may put him out, never (now) upsets me in revenge- To the friend who, treated with marked coolness by all the female members of my household, and regarded with suspicion by my very dog, nevertheless seems day by day to be more drawn by me, and in return to more and more impregnate me with the odor of his friendship- To the friend who never tells me of my faults, never wants to borrow money, and never talks about himself- To the companion of my idle hours, the soother of my sorrows, the confidant of my joys and hopes- My oldest and strongest pipe, this little volume is gratefully and affectionately dedicated." Indeed, so! I feel (again) a bit (strongly) jealous, what a tremendously charming way to pay a tribute to…something or someone! This collection of essays - by the way, there is a second volume, too- is a joy to read, while at the same time, it feels like you are hit by cold showers, from the moral lesson point of view. JKJ is again in his best element: humour, wit, a bit of satire, irony, here and there, and everything is wrapped up in a very simple, digestible and common description of the human life, of people or their actions, trying to reveal the weaknesses and idiosyncrasies as states of fact or common aspects of life. I loved the best his very amusing anecdotes. His humour is bright, and his satire can be easily accepted, without turning the knife deep into your wound, or trying to sink in some deep doubts or questions. He is not dwelling strongly on the human sentiments, but only give you a gentle glimpse and, most important, doesn't carry any meanness or wickedness. He wants you to have your wrinkles smoothened on your face. Well, it depends here on how much loosen skin one has. Sometimes, you can get yourself in big trouble, as by laughing out loud strongly, your eyes might be covered totally of that free skin... I like the way he treats some important subjects by proving that he knows a good deal about the man's and woman's psychology, which allows him to paint, in a very limited space, some very memorable characters, mostly as if talking about himself. His style is clear, straight, and the humorous-satirical shades give the best of the message in all his anecdotes, because in the end we are supposed to extract some lessons, or take-away points, which in most cases, are full of bitterness, grief, sadness, about the human nature... This little volume gathers 14 essays on: being idle; being in love; being in the blues; being hard up; vanity and vanities; getting on in the world; the weather; cats and dogs; being shy; babies; eating and drinking; furnished apartments; dress and deportment; memory. I loved the most the essays on themes such as: idleness, love, vanity and vanities, being shy, cats and dogs, memory. The others are good enough too, so don't think they should be skipped or skimmed. It is just my personal feel that was moved strongly on those themes. I am now heading into the second volume, which surprisingly was written much later, that is to say when he was in his late 30', while the first volume saw the light of print in his late 20'. If you have a desire for something playful and light, but still thoughtful and inspiring, this is a happy choice. "Can you remember, reader, when you felt something of the same sort of thing? Can you remember those amazing days of fresh young manhood'how, when coming home along the moonlit road, we felt too full of life for sober walking, and had to spring and skip, and wave our arms, and shout till belated farmers' wives thought'and with good reason, too'that we were mad, and kept close to the hedge, while we stood and laughed aloud to see them scuttle off so fast and made their blood run cold with a wild parting whoop, and the tears came, we knew not why? Oh, that magnificent young LIFE! that crowned us kings of the earth; that rushed through every tingling vein till we seemed to walk on air; that thrilled through our throbbing brains and told us to go forth and conquer the whole world; that welled up in our young hearts till we longed to stretch out our arms and gather all the toiling men and women and the little children to our breast and love them all'all. Ah! they were grand days, those deep, full days, when our coming life, like an unseen organ, pealed strange, yearnful music in our ears, and our young blood cried out like a war-horse for the battle. Ah, our pulse beats slow and steady now, and our old joints are rheumatic, and we love our easy-chair and pipe and sneer at boys' enthusiasm. But, oh, for one brief moment of that god-like life again!"